The Boy from Cour des Miracles
by Issay
Summary: Bits and pieces about Porthos and company. Rating may go up. Headcanons, so possible AU/foreshadowing
1. The backstory

_A/N: It's my first story in this fandom and first written originally in English (which is not my native language - and the rules of interpunction are incredibly confusing). Please, be constructive in your criticism and don't be afraid to point out any technical mistakes I've made! :)_

**The Boy from Cour des Miracles**

Porthos' first memory is that man from Rue du Plummet who offers his mother money for the boy. He has a good idea what that perverted creature in dirty brown coat and worn shoes wanted to do with him and what shocks (and maybe even defines his whole adult life even though he likes to think it is not a factor) him the most is that his mother hesitates for a second. Not long, just a moment enough to think about lack of bread and shoes that need to be repaired and next week's rent that needs to be paid. This little while there, those seconds of hesitation shape Porthos in a man who will give money to the poor (Aramis always wonders why his friend lives in those poor, cold quarters when he is being paid enough to rent an apartment. Athos knows that when it is dark and cold outside Porthos goes out and gives out the coins, leaving little to none for himself). She declines in the end but the damage is done.

When Porthos is five his mother dies. It is not all that unexpected, really, she has been coughing and was feverish for months. She dies in her sleep, mercifully without pain – she had enough of that in her life already. She leaves her son and a little baby girl named Jacqueline or that is what Porthos thinks (he is not sure tough, his memory of that time is a little blurry). Immediately after the funeral or whatever you will call tossing a body into the whole in the ground with other poor souls that did not have fifty sous to pay for something more dignified, the baby is taken by some neighbors and that is the last time Porthos sees his sister. The older he gets the less sure he is that there was a sister at all. But something in him says he is a brother and he will not argue that.

He is left out there on the streets. It's terrifying at first with all the people that could hurt him and no warm home to go back to but he learns quickly, especially two important things needed to survive there. One is a truth well known in Paris - cemetery is the best place to hide and sleep the night. The other is how to steal.

By the time he is twelve, Porthos is one of the best pickpockets in the city. When he is fifteen, he and his friend rob a rich man's wife out of her jewels and get drunk in a tavern. When Porthos wakes up the next day, his friend is nowhere to be seen and he himself is apparently on a ship.

He spends five years working his way up the pirate hierarchy and deciding that his life could have been much worse than that even though he got betrayed and sold to join a crew. He strangely enjoys learning to fight and to set sails and even to pump out the water from the bilge. The enjoyment fades away when he almost looses his eye during and escape from the Spanish navy and spends a month recovering from getting his jaw broken. So he decides to go back.

Paris is as noisy and smelly as he remembers. In the first hour he gets pushed, almost robbed and when he is almost on his way back to Le Havre, a strange, Spanish looking man bumps into him. Aramis his name is, he says, as he tries to escape an angry shopkeeper, apparently a husband of Aramis' newest lady friend. The shopkeeper and his three sons take Porthos as the offenders help and so a quick friendship is made. They almost kill the poor man and his sons, almost get caught by the Red Guard and Porthos, of course, gets shot because apparently he was not through enough that particular day. It is really luck that Aramis has had some practice with needles and is able to sew the wound shut. They joke about it later because it truly is a beginning of a beautiful friendship and something in Porthos says "brother". He is now going to argue with that. He is not sure if he wants to.

After all they go to the tavern and get drunk. And apparently one life lesson was not enough for Porthos because he wakes up and it seems they had joined the musketeer regiment.

As it turns out later – it really could have been worse.


	2. A forest in Savoy

Porthos does not remember much from that hard, fast ride towards Savoy. He and Athos came back to Paris after a week spent in Reims, chasing after a would be assassin who apparently was on British pay. They have fully expected Aramis to be back from his training exercise and greet them with ale and dinner – but instead they have met Treville, his eyes dark and face grim. That Porthos remembers well, the ice cold feeling in his stomach. A thing he had come to associate with bad things happening to those he loves. He and tightly lipped Athos did not even have to exchange words – ignoring Treville's order to stay put, they just got horses from stables and run into the dark night. And indeed, those were the dark hours spent on horseback with only his cold, clear visions of Aramis' body lying in a ditch somewhere, half covered with snow and with his dead eyes staring into the space. They should be there, Porthos thought with anger. They have failed the one person who counted on them.

They were not the first ones in that damn forest in Savoy – in the first light of the day Porthos and Athos saw blue capes of their fellow musketeers. And they saw carriages. One after the other filled with bodies laid down in even rows and covered with light blue fabric. They stopped, taking in the sight worse than any battlefield and torture chamber they have ever seen.  
"One of them is Aramis," said Athos quietly and saying it out loud made it too real for the both of them. The day was beautiful, cold but sunny, the blue sky over them. Blue like the cloth some good soul covered their friends broken, bloody body. Maybe the fabric will be stained with blood from throat cut when he was still asleep, that is a quick death that Porthos would wish for a friend. But maybe it would cover his hands, still clenched from the pain of the wound to his stomach or liver, that would mean hours of dying. All alone, in the cold, among bodies of twenty one musketeers. Twenty one friends. Porthos said a quiet prayer and followed Athos to the attacked camp.

"Twenty dead," said Jean-Jacques when they came closer. He was a good man, old and hardened by years of service but back there, in the forest of Savoy, he had that broken look in his dark eyes. "Aramis is not among them," he added quickly and for a minute Porthos felt like his knees were about to just bend. Athos' steadying hand on his shoulder had helped huge musketeer regain his calm. He thanked the older man with a nod of his head. They still had a friend to find and nor Athos, nor Porthos would stand for Aramis to be alone a minute more if they could prevent that from happening.  
The forest in Savoy is one of the things that will haunt Porthos for the rest of his life, be it in memories or in dreams. Signs of fight and struggle, blood spatters and smears on the bark of the trees, pools of red glistening slightly in the sunlight. It truly was a massacre and their Aramis was somewhere there, unconscious or dead, surrounded by this horror and unmistakeable stench of blood that already started to rot. They are soldiers, all of them and their minds are strong, have to be. But the sight of one's brothers slaughtered like animals is something that can break any man, even as strong as Aramis.

It was good after midday when Athos had found him, sitting with his back against a tree and staring at something with unseeing eyes, his face bloodied and blank. Athos carefully touched Aramis' shoulder and Porthos noticed a slight tremble of his leaders hand. They waited for reaction and got none and there was that silent voice at the back of Porthos' mind, the one that whispered dark things during his days at the Cour des Miracles, that maybe Aramis is too far gone for them to reach him. Maybe he will stay for the rest of his days just like this, pale and slack, sitting in a chair somewhere and staring at horrors only he can see. This thought made Porthos kneel next to his friends, his hand on Aramis' arm. He was there, breathing and without any major injuries like cut throat or a musket bullet in his belly. And for that second, that precious moment in time, it was all that mattered.


	3. A forest in Savoy, part 2

Savoy is apparently a recurring theme for my brain, 'cause I've wrote three different pieces about it from three points of view and in different types of narration and then I realized that they all fit together. Just not in one chapter. So instead I have the previous one, this one and the one still waiting for its time to be published.  
One more thing - if you have prompts, wishes or simply things that you want to read about, please, don't be shy and write about them in the comments part. My brain feels comfortable playing in musketeer sandbox - and so do I. Just no smut for now. I'm still trying to get that right.  
Lots of love from cold and rainy Poland!

* * *

A forest in Savoy, part 2: In the darkness

Something wakes him up.  
It may be a cold drop of rain or roar of the wind in the trees or maybe his cloak slipped and his feet are freezing. He is not sure what it is but something wakes him up in the middle of the night and for a moment, split of a second, all he hears is the scream of a hunting owl and normal sounds of nightlife in a forest. They seem so foreign to him, child of a city, like a strange language. But that second passes and he hears something else - wet, sickening sound of a throat being slit. This is a sound he knows well, this son of a big, violent city. This is the sound that causes his heart to stop in fear and all is muscles to contract in expectation of a panicked movement. He is deadly still and hears even more - footsteps on dried leaves, more wet sounds of slitting throats, blood splattering the ground. Aramis slowly reaches to his knife - the spade lies few feet away from him and he is too afraid to make this sudden movement and grab it. The leather covered handle is comfortingly familiar and makes him feel less helpless. Finally, very slowly and using the cover provided by the low pine tree he has been sleeping under, he gets up.

There is a dark figure coming his way, someone light on their feet and Aramis gets ready to attack, kill to avoid getting killed. But killing is not so easy as it would seem and he feels relieved when he recognizes Marsac, wide eyed and determined, blood on his hunting knife. Without exchanging words, just mere glances, they move forward in a controlled step, one protecting backside of the other. And they fight. Soon there is more blood and more wet sounds, there are probably screams, too - Aramis had early learned in life that people seem to scream at all occasions. When they have sex and when they are happy, when afraid, in pain, when birthing and when dying. But he does not hear those screams in Savoy. Only that hunting owl. Everything falls silent with the exception of the sickening sound of blade delving deep in the flesh. The same sound is being made by the fine, sharp blade that cuts his left arm, his right thigh, the one that scrapes his back, side of the neck just a hair from the aorta, his cheek and finally the one that strikes his right arm in that nameless place between shoulder and collar bone. He sees Marsac getting struck by the man with an ax once and twice, and before the third strike falls, he kills him with his knife buried deep between man's shoulders, it is a strange moment, he feels the life leave this unknown to his man, who probably had a wife or a lover in his home, wherever it would be. Aramis falls to his knees, everything is so silent and he wonders if it is his time. Because if it is, he will go willingly. He is so tired and in pain and there are bodies of his companions, people he knew and trusted with his life, murdered in their sleep. So much blood on this damned Savoy ground. So much pain. He has no strength to object when Marsac drags him to a hole in the ground, hidden between the small trees and dumps him there. It is almost morning and first light of day is shining through heavy clouds.

He watches Marsac go, slowly but surely, and disappear in the early morning mist. He hears nothing. Maybe if he had more strength and will to live, he would wonder what happened to him. But he does not. He just takes it as it is, alone in the cold morning. He slowly sits upright, his injured back propped against the tree and he waits. Aramis wonders how death is going to look like. Skeleton in dark cloak or maybe a beautiful, merciful lady in white dress? He was never a good man, he deserted his mother and then he got kicked out of the army. He drunk, he seduced women and caused them to sin, he killed. No, definitely not a good man. Not someone deserving kind and merciful face of death. So he closes his eyes and waits patiently for the amount of time that seems like an era.

And when finally a warm hand delicately touches his arm, he is ready to go.


	4. A forest in Savoy, part 3

After all is said and done they bury Marsac on the same cemetery they have laid to rest other musketeers who have fallen in the Savoy forest. They will have to order another cross but that is not a matter to concern Porthos. The big musketeer is worried about his friend. He has seen what Savoy had done to Aramis.

After they, Porthos and Athos, found him under that tree in Savoy, they have sent a word to Paris about one corpse less, loaded him on a horse with Athos and rode to the first French village they can find that would have a tavern with rooms to rent. Aramis was just like a puppet then, compliant, silent and very, very still. They could do anything to him and he would not react to it. Like a broken toy. Or like a man in shock so deep Porthos was not sure they could still reach him. In complete silence, communicating only with pointed looks and gestures, Athos and him have cleaned Aramis' wounds, exchanging worried glances when cleansing the head wound and that bad gash on his back, probably made with a spear or maybe ax. Their friend had let them - or just did not raise protest when they had removed most of his clothing to be able to reach every wound and bruise with cleansing water and salves and bandages. It was just like with a doll that you can dress and undress as you please. Even this distant look on his face did not change when they had tended to his wounds. No pained grimace, no tears and what had mostly worried Porthos, no acknowledgment of their presence whatsoever. He had expected relief or at least some kind of reaction to the fact that he is not out there in the cold surrounded by the corpses of his companions. "Maybe that head wound his worse than we though," whispered Athos after dragging Porthos aside and looking at Aramis, who was sitting on the bed and staring into the fire roaring in the fireplace. But they both knew that if the wound was this bad, there was no medic who would be able to help. Only time could tell and that was all that Porthos could offer as an answer to Athos' worry. They had laid Aramis down and covered him with blankets and took turns in sitting with him while the other one slept.

"I had a wife, you know," whispered Athos in that dark, silent hour of the night, not looking at Aramis' blank face. "She was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. Blue eyed, dark haired, face of an angel... I would do anything for her. Anything. But for some reason, I do not know, she killed my brother. She had a past but I loved her too fiercely for that to come between us. But she doubted me and killed him. So I had to, she did not leave my a choice, I had to sentence her to death, there was no doubt that she had done it, so many witnesses... So I did. And I was a coward. I could not see my wife hanging from a tree and know it was my order that put her there. I could not watched her die, my angel and the only joy of my life. And then I got on a horse and left for Paris and never looked back. There were days when I wanted..."he stopped there, like he did not want to say those words. "But what I want to say is that there is a way to push through. It will not be pleasant and it will not set you free. But you can have a purpose. Bringing to justice those who are at fault with what happened in that forest. Justice, Aramis. But you have to say something. In your own time. When you feel ready to fight for it." Porthos shut his eyes, not sure if he should say a word to let his friend know that he had heard something not meant for his ears. So he said nothing. And in the morning Aramis sat down and in hoarse, tired voice said "Justice, you say?" and everything was more right that the night before.

Yes, Porthos thought, justice. So with Marsac buried in the ground and the duchess still alive and safe, justice could wait. It had waited for so many years and so many nightmares. Few more, especially with a good reason like that, Aramis would not minds. He has finally some peace of mind, so much needed. Justice can wait. And even without it the healing could finally begun.  
If only it was so easy for Athos...

* * *

And in the next chapter - the kickass women of The Musketeers verse!


	5. Blood and soil

Happy Women's Day!

* * *

They are the women of Paris. They are tough and know no sentiments, at least not in daylight. What happens in the nighttime, when the city is asleep and no one needs their strength, is a different matter.

When Constance's husband is revealed a traitor to the crown, conspiring with Cardinal and trying to kill her, his own wife, she keeps calm. Surely, she almost dies. Bu d'Artagnan is there to shoot monsieur Bonacieux before he chokes her to death and then to console her when she is all shaken up. Later that day Aramis checks her injuries and offers his sincere apologies for her husband's fate. She stares at him, not believing her own ears, did the man go insane? So she simply shrugs, after all he simply got what he deserved and she does not have it in her to feel sorry for him. Constance goes back to scrubbing the floor, Bonacieux's blood is still there and she doubts that it will ever fade. Well, every household needs a reminder of its skeletons, hidden in the closet. The next day she buys a small, green carpet to cover the stain. In the night she thinks about him, her sad, small excuse for a husband who tried to murder her for his profit, who did not love her and she cries. She cries over all the lost years she had wasted on him when she could have someone better. And suddenly she is simply angry, furious with this life and times that made her choose a husband like that. But now he lies dead somewhere and she is in control of her life once again. So she gets out of bed, lights a candle and with light steps goes to d'Artagnan's room.

They are the women of Paris. But it most certainly does not mean they are defenseless, even if they are outnumbered. And especially if they are protecting those close to their hearts.

When she first hears about planned attack on musketeer garrison, Flea does not give it much thought. But then it dawns on her that Porthos would be in the middle of this fight and she starts to listen carefully. They are a group of few pro-Spanish morons and they think that France would be somehow better without "royalist scum of them blue coats". Flea smiles to those men and offers them drinks and plays seriously interested in helping them – the queen of Cour des Miracles could be a powerful ally to their cause so they spill their plans freely. And when she knows everything she needed – the name of their musket supplier, the man who gave them plans of the underground canals and the stable boy who would open the gates for them – Flea signalizes her men. Blood splatters onto the tavern floor (it has seen worse things than some red) and she smiles because the man she holds close to her heart will be safe at least from that one threat. So she goes away with a light heart and blessed by the knowledge that she is able to pay him back for saving her life that gloomy day when they were only children. Even if he never learns about this plot, ended brutally by the queen in rags.

They are the women of Paris. They may no have a right to say anything about politics or economy or relations between nations but they observe. And they see so much more than men.

Anne is probably the first to know – not suspect, simply know – even before one of them realizes what is happening. She notices the small things: Aramis' possessive arm around Porthos' shoulders, dark skinned man's softer smile when he steals a glance at his friend thinking no one is looking. And she is happy for them, she truly is because if anyone knows the pain and emptiness of living without love, it's the queen of France. She tries to push them subtly, always requesting their service as a tandem. There were days when she toyed with an idea to seduce Aramis but she saw devotion in his eyes towards his fellow musketeer and decided against it. It would be simply unfair to take this away from them. So the queen thinks that she shall protect their secret at any cost – because love like that is rare and precious, and should be kept in secret, no one knows it better than her.

They are the women of Paris, the blood and soil of this city. And one day everyone will see that.


	6. Kissing fire

It's apparently a new secular tradition, Porthos getting wounded during a sword fight, tavern brawl or heroic rescue (this time it was a bullet to his thigh when retrieving Cardinal's letters from a Spanish spy and Aramis' heart stopped for a second because there was so much blood, blood on his hands and ground and Athos' spare shirt they used as a bandage, he really thought the artery was hit). Also part of this tradition was Aramis staying behind with him in a random hellhole they were in when a fight occurred, with Athos and d'Artagnan going back to Paris or to wherever they needed to go. This time it was Reims. Aramis wasn't actually surprised. Every single time they were in Reims, things went to hell. So he even packed his second set of sewing needles, just in case.

He already knows the inn and its innkeeper – they get a room with a bed, comfortable armchair next to it and a bucket of clean water already near the roaring fireplace. Well, if he can't keep everybody in one, not bleeding piece for at least one trip, he'll take his comfort in the little things, like the fact that he doesn't have to spend his whole night on a hard, wooden chair as it usually happens after sewing his friend's wounds and lets him sleep when he watches.

He likes to watch.

Aramis knows that it would be considered as wrong if anyone knew. Nobody could ever know, if he actually wanted to live (and he liked breathing, thank you very much). Ending up at a stake, as that was the law's punishment for loving another man, oh well, those are the times they are living in, was not on his list of things he wanted to do in his life.

It did not feel wrong, though. Watching steady rise and fall of Porthos' chest and taking comfort in it. Listening to his breath and soft snoring. There was some perverted, shameful pleasure Aramis found in stitching him up – those were only moments when he could touch this hot, often bloody skin with his hands. There were months, usually those dark ones in the fall and winter, when those stolen moments were all that carried him through. So even with the guilt and shame and knowledge that it is forbidden – Aramis knows he is unable to change the way he thinks, feels and remembers Porthos in the middle of the night.

He is a thief, he knows that. Because during nights like this one, when his best friend and probably the love of his life is too drunk on wine Aramis gave him to dull the pain of surgery, he can steal more than just a glance or seemingly accidental touch.

When he is sure that Porthos sleeps deeply enough – he knows this particular cadence of breath and that his eyelids do not twitch – Aramis is confident enough to slide his hands up his arms, reveling in touch of warm skin. He remembers every single scar on this body. Knows the shapes of muscles, wiry hair and rough, calloused places on Porthos' hands, reminder of his rough childhood. Knows about that one scar on his back that looks just like after a whipping. Knows the bitter scent of gunpowder, leather, pepper and something that is so uniquely Porthos, he cannot put his finger on what it precisely is.

With his hands upon this warm, steady moving chest, Aramis leans so his face is just above Porthos'. It is the part he really steals and at the same time, the one that is so _wrong_ yet feels so _right_. Slowly, carefully he kisses those lips, tasting wine and heat. It is like kissing fire - it is never enough. And yet it is everything.

He should hate himself for it, he knows. For wanting this so well-known and loved body on his, for wanting his cheerful, generous man to love him and to spend his whole life with. There is that little part of Aramis that feels this hate towards himself but love, yes, this love is pure and overwhelming and probably one day will drive him mad. Maybe. But it is truly worth going mad for this man so he will gladly accept his end.

He stays like this for a long moment – stolen time, thinks bitterly to himself – once again remembering every line and wrinkle and those hard to notice, slightly darker than Porthos' skin, freckles. To carry him through those long nights filled with memories of Savoy, when shadows on the wall have faces of dead friends.

And with one kiss of fire – they are gone.

* * *

A/N: This wasn't planned. I'm just having a bad night - I've recently lost someone, he's not dead, just decided that he wants me out of his life so I have a lot of feelings to manage and writing does the trick - and bum, I have a chapter. Sorry, if it sucked - just let me know, I'll make sure that none of the emotionally written stuff ends up published ;)


	7. A state of choice

"but what happened after that – death by a noose  
or perhaps a punishment generously chained to a dungeon  
I'm afraid there is a third dark solution  
beyond the limits of time the senses and reason

therefore when I wake I don't open my eyes  
I clench my fingers don't lift my head  
breathe lightly because truly I don't know  
how many minutes of air I still have left"

Porthos was not used to having a choice. The sheer idea that he could have a possibility of choosing what he wants to do with his life was unbelievable, breath-taking and absolutely terrifying. So when for the first time in his life someone asks him to choose – he is sixteen and by Cour des Miracles standards it means that he does not have a long life ahead of him – it comes as something between shock and blessing. The man who asks him is older than him, wears a blue coat and has pride in his stance, something Porthos has learned to see and respect. And he wants that. He wants to be a man who does not starve and who does not have to steal in order to survive. He wants a roof over his head and a blue coat and maybe finally a reason to like himself, even a little bit. So he chooses, not entirely believing that those words – that he wants to become a recruit, he wants to learn how to fight in a honorable way and to be a good man for his king – have any power.  
And then Jean-Armand de Treville smiles to him.

Aramis and Athos are not a choice. They end up together because of an order and because apparently Treville decided that they somehow fit together. Porthos thinks it to be madness because he could not imagine three more different men than they are. Athos with his sadness and quite apparent liking to wine, swordsman extraordinaire and unquestionable leader. Mostly because with leadership comes paperwork and he is the only one who is not arguing with taking it. Aramis, golden child of Paris, man who worships women and is skilled in an art of quick escapes from their husbands. And him. A child well acquainted with gutters of this city, man coming from nothing. Self-made, created by his own will.  
They are mismatched and do not belong anywhere, really. And maybe that is why they work together so well – if none of them has a place to call home and people to call family, they create it for themselves. Not by choice, Porthos is aware of that, but by necessity – one of the first lessons Paris has offered him is that a person who is alone will not survive. So he chooses not to be alone. He drinks wine with Athos and teaches Aramis card tricks to impress the ladies. And soon they are not a necessity any longer – they are what he chose.

He knows well that a man with certain inclinations have little to no choice. He knew, maybe from the beginning, that if he wants to live, he needs to keep his most intimate thoughts and needs to himself. So he slept with Flea and dozens of nameless women not because of desire but of self-preservation. "No one can now," Charon told him once, when they were both drunk and their lips were swollen with kisses. "No one can now, because we will burn, burn, burn. We will be hated and tortured and killed as if we did something to deserve it".

Aramis believes in a God of love. Porthos questions it sometimes, because if God is truly the one of love and forgiveness, then how come love can be a thing able to condemn a man? How can it be so wrong to love another man that some priests long time ago decided that people like him should be put to death like common criminals?

It is what he is, not a choice. And that bothers him the most – maybe not hurts because if you have lived in denial for so long, you become used to it and it does not hurt anymore. Because if he had a choice, he would not steal glances at Aramis and would not wake up in the middle of the night, hard and filled with longing for calloused hands that touched him only when mending his wounds. "A state of choice," Porthos muses to himself one night, heavily drunk and bitter and not caring if anyone listens, "is a state when one would not choose to be himself".  
And that, really, is the bottom of the problem.

But deep, deep down he knows why he hates himself so much. He knows that if he was given a choice, he would give everything – this unusual possibility to choose included – for a one kiss he would not have to be ashamed for.

* * *

A/N: Opening quote is from "The Trial" by absolutely brilliant Polish poet, Zbigniew Herbert.

I feel like I need to explain why I came up with the idea that Porthos hates himself for "unnatural" inclinations toward men. It's 17th century France. In years 1260 (same-sex sexual activity become punishable by mutilation [in case of first or second offence] and death) - 1791 (after French Revolution, France was the first country in the Western Europe to decriminalize homosexuality) man loving a man and woman loving a woman were in constant danger of losing their lives. Something like this leaves a mark on one's way of thinking about themselves and I decided that if those times weren't all romance and roses, I want to show it.

And I also wanted to say: thank you. For the comments. They really made me feel better and motivated to write more :)


	8. And in the fire I saw the truth

„When it got very bad  
they leapt into each other's eyes  
and shut them firmly

So firmly they did not feel the flames  
when they came up to the eyelashes

To the end they were brave"

They are burning.

Aramis cannot take his eyes off them – their hands linked, even though they are back to back and heads proudly kept high. It is truly an unusual sight. They keep holding hands even though fire starts reaching their eyes.  
Equally unusual is such a brutal execution to be public but the king ordered to make an example out of them, undoubtedly an idea coming from the cardinal himself, and what Louis wants, Louis gets. And they were not nobodies – merchants or something, Aramis is sure that one of them owned the butchery that served the court. So after they got caught twice, the king decided not to have mercy.  
Musketeer feels nauseous when a priest stands next to the pyre and starts praying for the sinners to go straight to the gates of hell. He believes in a God that is full of love and who commanded his children to cherish each other. How can people think love to be a crime and sentence the ones guilty of it to death in fire?  
From where he is standing – and it is truly a place in front row, whole court is there, blue coats included by Treville's order – he sees the details. Red, angry flesh where flames started devouring the victims. Scent of the smoke, sickly sweet. Anne's pale face, Richelieu looking like he is about to faint and the king – Louis angers Aramis. He is almost jumping in his seat, excited like a child and wanting to bet on how quickly the convicts will die.  
But there are other details, too. Like joined hands and a smile they shared minutes before being tied to a pole. And words they said to each other. Beautiful words, full of love and longing that makes Aramis want to cry. „I will see you," said this one nameless man to the other. With such certainty. With such faith.  
But he cannot give words to his objections, even if they are growing in his throat, threatening to choke him. And, after all, it is already too late. The pyre collapses, burying its victims and Aramis hears Louis whining about the execution not lasting long enough.  
To him it seems like it lasted hours, not mere minutes. Maybe men who constructed the pyre were merciful and gave those poor souls quick death. But still, it takes Porthos' heavy, slightly trembling hand on his arm to stop Aramis from doing something very stupid. Like punching the king of France.  
„Let's go home," says Porthos in his deep, rumbling voice but this time there is something peculiar about his tone. Like it is uncertain and pleading and afraid at the same time. And Porthos is never afraid so Aramis goes.

„It is so...wrong," Porthos says somewhere around the second emptied bottle of wine. „Burning those people, I mean. Man should be free to choose who he craves."  
Aramis nods, uncorking third bottle and filling their cups.  
„They held hands," he mutters after a long while. They are sitting on Porthos' bed next to each other, only a bottle of wine and few layers of clothes between them. Silence and darkness around them. Maybe in them, too. „Through it all. They held hands until they burned to death. And they shared words of love and God and...Porthos? I want to love someone this much. Till death and the end of the world."  
„I know," Porthos whispers and takes a sip, wine is suddenly bitter on his tongue.

It is never silent between the two of them, except it is now and Aramis – drunk and torn between despising the world and despising himself – has no idea what to say to fill this heavy silence.  
Then they look at each other. The world stops. And then Porthos has this moment of clarity of what will happen – of what has to happen because they are too drunk and too sad and most of all, too tired of lying to themselves about who they really are. Because it has been years of blood spilled together, blood mixed together and Porthos cannot think about anyone else than Aramis he would like to share his execution pyre with. So to hell with consequences. This has to happen, even if it will kill them.  
Later Aramis will try to remember who started it but it is not truly important. The only real importance is that suddenly there were Porthos' lips underneath his and the fire, fire spreading though his veins when the kiss is answered.

And then they are burning.

* * *

The opening quote is from "Two drops" by Zbigniew Herbert.


	9. Words of men

"Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly." 

Porthos is no good with words.

He is not illiterate – at least not anymore, captain Treville and his madam helped him with reading and writing – but words are like wild animals, especially in those fragile moments like this one. They lie on a blanket thrown onto the floor in front of the fireplace, warmth radiating from it, Aramis' naked skin against his. It is quiet and comfortable, and Porthos thinks that it cannot last forever. It is too good. Good never lasts in his life. So one day this bubble will burst and then...  
"I can actually hear you thinking, you know," mutters Aramis, his lips wet and hot against his chest. For a moment Porthos wants to simply tell him. That he fears one day Red Guard will come barging in and they will be taken, tried and sentenced to death. Or that Aramis will get bored and leave him behind – for the queen, for a rich widow, for any woman, really. That one of them will get killed during a mission. Or...

No, he is no good with words. So he simply smiles and does what he knows how – leans towards his lover's lips and captures them with his own, the matter forgotten in the flurry of sudden movement, hard muscles underneath him and Aramis' quiet laugh, thick with desire.

*  
"Love is a reckless, blind whore with no sense of humor," decides d'Artagnan drunkenly, staring into his cup with only few drops of wine left in it as it could answer him.  
"Stupid. You forgot about stupid," Athos smiles dryly, reaching for another bottle. Porthos chuckles even though he knows he should not, it is not polite to laugh at this. His friends got their hearts broken – d'Artagnan by beautiful and apparently merciless Constance and Athos... Well, probably that woman who spoke on Ninon's trial, whoever she was.  
"Aramis would probably have something to say about this," d'Artagnan continues, "if only he was not busy screwing another married madame into her mattress."

Porthos realizes what he is doing when his cup already has a dent in its side, made by his own too big, too strong hands. Sure, he thinks bitterly, Aramis probably has taste for smaller, more delicate ones. Maybe hoping that even with fear and knowing that what they are doing is a crime, was truly a fool's hope. And what a fool he is.

Athos raises his brows – both, notices d'Artagnan, who catalogues his friend's facial expressions from "you have to be fucking joking" one raised brow to "I am going to hell because of you, aren't I?" two lowered brows (Gascon is pretty sure that lowering one's eyebrows is unnatural). Both raised usually mean "I really don't want to know, do I?". But he's not really sure. It's Athos, after all.

Porthos leaves without a word, his face dark with feeling Athos does not even want to recognize. So he decides to worry about it later, maybe tomorrow morning.  
D'Artagnan smiles as happily as only a drunk man can when Athos fills his cup.

*  
Porthos does not know words of poetry nor love. But he knows violence and the sweet, sweet relief it brings so after leaving the tavern, he simply walks dark, muddy streets of Paris and waits for someone to be stupid enough. It's Paris. He doesn't have to wait for too long.

"Friend, you really need to work on your speed," he says to the man currently lying in the puddle of mud, horse shit and God almighty knows what else. Porthos leaves him here – his knuckles are bruised and bloody and he finally feels tired. It took seven idiots misfortune enough to meet him on their path this night. So he wants to go home, maybe drink some more and get some sleep. Seems easy enough.

Aramis waits patiently on his doorstep.

They do not exchange words. Porthos has none and even if he had, Aramis' lips are working their way down his body. So he closes his eyes, puts this too big hand, instrument of such violence, on his lover's head and pretends that he does not feel woman's perfume in the air surrounding him. It is easier that way. But it does not make the pain go away.

It is cowardice, he knows. But he has no words big enough to carry his anger and longing. Porthos fears that if he uses wrong ones, Aramis will not understand. So, for now, this will have to do.

* * *

Opening quote is from "Dreams" by Langston Hughes.

I really, really wanted to write something fluffy and look how that one worked out.  
Also, Aramis is a slut with no understanding of commitment. You have to forgive him that.


	10. Mingulay

Porthos misses the sea.

It is not really being a pirate he misses or a hard, uncomfortable living on a ship - he is used by now to his bed and steady ground under his feet. It is also not about sharing his space with dozen other men who wash themselves only when it is raining and they have no other choice than to stand in the deluge. No, being one of those who had answered the call of the sea meant to leave comforts and pleasures in some port. The sea is a cruel mistress, Porthos knows that all too well - he remembers sickness, ferocious battles and almost losing an eye. Crowd and stink and blood on the floor. But as it usually is with things long past, he has also good memories. Perfect, even. And that he misses.  
Porthos remembers long nights under a sky so bright with stars you have to see it to believe that it is possible, dark blue with clear, white lights like diamonds. Moon, so big and close that you could reach with your hand and try to grab it, check if it really is made of cheese as poor children say. He remembers cool wind caressing his cheeks like a loving lady and salty breeze in his hair. Salt on his lips, like a memory of a kiss. Waves swaying him gently to sleep like in his mother's womb, safely tucked away in warm darkness of the ship. Long forgotten are days of back breaking labor and longing to reach a port. All he remembers is blue sea and endless sky and cry of the seagulls that wakes this restlessness deep in his chest.

Sometimes, when he drinks too much, he starts telling stories. D'Artagnan listens to him, wide eyed and curious, almost drinking words spilling from Porthos' lips. So he speaks of legendary treasures waiting for those that are brave on some long lost islands, about maps where X marks the spot and about mermaids guarding secret passages known only to the chosen ones. He tells him stories about Flying Dutchman and souls lost to the sea. About Davy Jones, his locker and kraken, creature that makes even the bravest sailors tremble in fear. Porthos speaks about hope in man's heart when he hears familiar cry of a seagull and about storms that shake fine wood of the ships, winds that shred white sails and relief when morning finally comes and sky changes color to softest oranges, reds and yellows. D'Artagnan smiles and says that he would like to see all of it. Porthos only shakes his head.

The truth is, once you give your heart to the sea, you have nothing left to give to people left on the shore. And you gain freedom - to be who you want to be, on a ship or on some shore far away from all you know. Porthos knows it all too well. At night, when he lies quietly in the circle of Aramis' arms, he feels trapped. So he escapes into what he remembers to be his freedom - days in the shadow of white sails, when all men where equally tired and dirty and their skin dark with sun and wind. When it did not matter what color had one's skin if only he was able to work and did not have a slave's collar on his neck. He tries to remind himself, really tries, that he is home now and he is happy with his brothers by day and Aramis in his arms at night. But with every slap to the cheek - every single time some lowlife from Red Guard calls him a mongrel or some aristocrat mistakes him for a servant, he hears seagull's cry and feels salty scent of sea wind. He knows that if he leaves, there will be no way to go back - so he stays, because of love and because he feels that somehow he is obliged to. Maybe Treville knew what he was doing when he send Porthos for a five year service to a captain he knew. Maybe musketeer leader thought it would suit Porthos better than life in Paris - this strong, stubborn boy with dark eyes and even darker past, with haunted look when asked about his childhood. Being a sailor made a man of him. But also took something from him and Porthos fears that he may never go back to the boy he once was.

And he still misses the sea.

* * *

Title is a nod to one of most beautiful sea songs I know - Mingulay Boat Song


	11. Turbulent drunkenness

"You swallowed everything, like distance.  
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.  
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse."

Aramis sleeps with the Queen of France.

And he's not even the one to confess this to Porthos, no, it's Athos who got drunk more than usual in the company of his closest friends. They are sitting around the fireplace at Athos' lodgings, celebrating Queens announcement when their hosts congratulates Aramis on impregnating the only woman in Paris who can actually get them all hanged.

The world stops for a second.

After that one, brief moment of silence and complete lack of movement, D'Artagnan nearly chokes on his wine.

„He did WHAT?!"

Athos smiles happily, so happy and content as only very drunk people can be. Aramis closes his eyes. Porthos feels blood in his veins turn into ice cold liquid. Carefully he puts his cup down and gets up slowly, like a man unsure of his movements – truth is, he has to think about every single one of them, every spasm of muscles and rising of his chest. Because if he doesn't have absolute control over his body, his huge, sure hands will close on Aramis' throat. And maybe it sounds like a great idea now but living on the streets taught Porthos that one thing about killing people: it needs to be done without emotions. Especially the people you love. Especially the people you trusted.

So he simply leaves. When the door closes, Aramis opens his eyes.

Walking is easy. He can do walking, even if he is drunk and desperate to hit something. It is better this way, when he has to concentrate on making another step and not falling down because when he does that, he does not have to think about Aramis' hands under Queen's skirts and his lips on hers. Not thinking is all he can do right now. All he needs to do – because if he starts, he will do something really, really stupid. Their child, that is another thing he should not think about. The list grows longer with every minute.

He knew it could not last forever. Aramis would eventually get bored and simply tell him, surely breaking Porthos' big, needy heart but that is the way it should be. They could be civil, eventually even go back to comfortable friendship they had shared before sharing a bed. But this way has no respect in it and no way of ending things in a clean cut of a sword. It will be a mess, like a wound that was not cleaned properly. Aramis chose it to be this way.

Porthos follows his own footsteps, he goes to familiar places and never stays long, looking for something – but he does not know what it is. So eventually he goes where it all begun so many years ago. He goes through familiar muddy streets and avoids people sleeping on chilly ground under unstable walls of buildings too old and too unkempt to be safe. Court des Miracles welcomes him with comforting darkness and sounds he knows all too well.

This part of Paris never sleeps.

She is waiting for him, apparently her spies have already reported that he was there. She does not say a word, simply takes his hand and guides him to her rooms. Flea is the Queen of the Court and he is so proud of her, even if he does not feel it now because it is easier not to feel.

Not to think. Not to feel. Her lips close on his.

It is easier than he expected. He knows the scent of her hair and sweaty, warm skin under his palms. She tastes just like he remembers, like home. She arches into him and all the thoughts are gone from his head, there is only soft swell of her breasts and hand tangled in his hair.

"Thank you," he says quietly, his fingers tracing ornaments on her still heated skin. Flea looks at him and smiles knowingly, slightly bitter. She loves him, in a way. But mostly she knows him better than most and sees the wall he have built between his emotions and himself in order to survive. She knows this way of coping, she has been living on the streets long enough to recognize the signs.

"What will you do now?" she asks and he does not know how to answer. She has no idea what it is all about – she has no way of knowing about Aramis and a child under Queen's heart. But she knows Porthos.

That is the only comfort he can find.

* * *

Chapter title and opening quote are from "A Song of Despair" by Pablo Neruda.


End file.
